


99 Problems

by kerravon



Series: Reflections in a Shattered Mirror [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amnesia, Drunkenness, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerravon/pseuds/kerravon
Summary: In the episode "99 Problems", Castiel shows up in the Winchesters' hotel room completely intoxicated.  Part of the subsequent exchange goes like this:SAM: "What the hell happened to you?"CASTIEL: "I found a liquor store."SAM: "And?"CASTIEL:  "And I drank it."This story concerns what happened to Castiel prior to that point.  It is set in the 'Shattered Mirrors' universe, where Castiel is a mind-wiped Aziraphale and Crowley is in deep hiding after the not-apocalypse of Good Omens.





	

99 Problems

"What'll you have?," asked the bartender perfunctorily, sliding a coaster onto the counter in front of the well-dressed demon as he eased tiredly onto the worn, wooden barstool. It had been several weeks since the unfortunate Colt incident, and he was on the run from most of Hell. Lucifer, and therefore his myriads of shortsighted loyalists, had Crowley at the top of their 'better off dead' list. 

After staying in some of the sleaziest flophouses in the country, shifting from hideout to hideout every few days, the Crossroads King was exhausted. He didn't hold much hope that the run-down hole-in-the-wall had anything remotely like his usual poison, but he felt he deserved a drink after all he'd been going through and didn't dare hit anyplace more upscale. Despite the seedy neighborhood, the bar was surprisingly lively and well-kept, and right now he'd settle for a shot of something potent. It would do.

He jerked his chin towards the display shelves behind the bar. "What's the best single-malt you've got?" he asked in return.

"Glenfiddich 30, Glenlivet 18, and Bowmore 25," came the immediate reply. 

Crowley's eyebrows shot up at that selection, and he nodded appreciatively. "Bowmore, please, straight." As the bartender turned away to fill his order, the crossroads demon leaned back slightly to survey the rest of the room. While unlikely that any Lucifer loyalist would trace him here, it never hurt to be certain that there weren't enemies present simply by sheer coincidence. That was just the way his luck seemed to be running lately, and he wouldn't put it past Fate to kick him in the privates when he let his guard down.

Sure enough, Crowley thought that he might know the individual at the far end of the bar. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion; rumpled trench coat, haphazard brown hair… he was pretty sure that it was the angel Castiel. The man-shaped ethereal being was drinking with grim determination, eyes fixed unseeingly on the glass in front of him and half-full bottle at his elbow. He seemed completely unaware of the demon's presence. He was either faking it as part of a trap, or was truly, dangerously, oblivious. That sort of single-minded ignorance to his surroundings could get the angel killed.

Crowley’s suspicious snakey mind was betting on the trap option. He carefully surveyed the room once again; it seemed unlikely that he had just run into the Winchesters' pet angel in a random bar in a city hundreds of miles from the hunters' last known location. This had to be some sort of trick. Still, he couldn't find anything else out of the ordinary, which (honestly?) seemed even more suspicious. 

Still, he was relatively sure there that there were no immediate threats, so he turned his attention back to the angel, still watching for signs of ambush as he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Your Bowmore, sir," announced the returning bartender as he precisely set the shot in front of the exhausted demon. 

Crowley glanced at the drink, sniffing it speculatively and jutting his lower lip in approval. He took a sip, and allowed himself a small smile. "Very nice," he commented appreciatively. Tossing down the cost of the drink as well as a generous tip, he continued, "Keep them coming, if you would."

The bartender dipped his head politely as he scooped up the cash. "Certainly, sir. Glad you like it. We don't often get such discerning palates in this part of town."

Crowley's mouth quirked up in a wry smirk. "I'm sure you don't." He sipped again and leaned back on his stool, angling himself to keep a wary eye on both the door and the intoxicated angel.

Castiel was drinking like a man with a mission, assuming that mission involved alcohol poisoning. He was hunched over his now-empty shot glass, refilling it himself from the nearby bottle of rotgut that had clearly been left at his request. The demon observed the erstwhile angel toss back the shot with a determined air, grimace at the taste, then shake his head and stare blearily at the bottom of the again-empty glass as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Crowley's vision suddenly wavered, and for a moment he visualized an older, plumper, blond angel looking at him in inebriated despair across a rickety table in the backroom of a dusty old bookstore. He swallowed reflexively, blinking back tears, and shook his head, and when he looked again, it was just the Angel of Thursday with a three-day growth of beard.

The heavenly minion was completely oblivious to his observer as he continued his single-minded pursuit of unconsciousness. Crowley winced; if the angel had been human, he would be looking forward to a (pardon his French) hell of a hangover tomorrow morning. Misery radiated from Castiel's every pore, and the demon wondered if something had happened to the Winchesters.

But no, that made no sense. Both Up Above and Down Below were intent on keeping the two brothers alive long enough to become Michael and Lucifer's vessels. There was no way that they would be allowed to escape through something as simple as death. So it must be something else making the angel mimic a very dedicated alcoholic. But what? His exhausted brain couldn’t produce an answer, so he decided that he must be missing some crucial information. He studied the angel out of the corner of his eye as he appreciatively sipped his surprisingly palatable whisky.

He was on his third shot when he overheard the bartender try to cut Castiel off.

"Come on, buddy, don't you think you've had enough?" the man asked kindly, and it was only due to the demon's occult hearing that he could make out the rhetorical question over the din in the bar.

"Ah mossshhh shertainly do NOT," objected Castiel, barely managing to stay upright on his stool.

That was it; Crowley couldn't stand the suspense. He had been sitting in the bar quietly watching for almost an hour now without any sign of a trap, so he felt relatively safe in approaching the angel. He snorted to himself as he concluded that Castiel probably wouldn't remember the conversation in the morning anyway. He stood, shoving a hand casually in his pants pocket as he meandered toward the escalating argument.

Coming up behind the slumping angel, Crowley shot the bartender a knowing look that promised that he'd take care of the situation. The bartender's mouth set into a disgusted line, but he gave a short nod and moved off. Castiel, mouth open and finger raised for his next slurred rejoinder, looked gobsmacked at the bartender's unexpected retreat.

"Castiel. Fancy meeting you here. Mind if I join you?" Without waiting on a reply, the demon slid onto the adjacent stool, setting his glass neatly on the counter.

The angel narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he tried to focus on the intruder. "Acshoooooly…" he began, only to interrupt himself as he recognized the demon. "Wait. You're….Crowley, right?"

The crossroads king flashed his most persuasive smile, masking the spike of misery at the reminder of Aziraphale's lost memories. "The one and only," he replied smugly, before he gestured to his own drink. "So? May I join you?"

Castiel turned blearily back to his glass, taking a determined gulp. "Do what you want," he responded bitterly. "Everyone can just do whatever they want." He drained his glass, then made to refill it.

Crowley's gaze darkened. Castiel's flippant statement clearly had a deeper meaning, but he was uncertain where to go with that realization. He quietly sipped at his scotch, rolling the words around in his mind.

Humans had always been able to do what they wanted; that was the nature of free will, after all. Demons and angels, on the other hand, were created to obey. It was not in their nature to make decisions for themselves, although evidently they could learn to do so over time. Crowley himself had worked through the ramifications of that reality over millennia. In fact, over time he had gotten so comfortable with making his own decisions that he had defied Hell to stop two separate apocalypses. Still, Down Below was nothing if not persistent, and they were doing it old-school this time. The seals were broken and Lucifer was walking the Earth searching for his chosen vessel.

On a hunch, the demon reached out and caught Castiel's wrist as he was raising his glass once more. "I doubt that 'whatever they want' includes angels giving themselves alcohol poisoning." 

Castiel turned towards him with an unfocussed glare. "Whatever. They. Want." he enunciated with great care. "God doesn't give a damn."

Crowley's brows creased in concern, not that he'd ever admit he was worried. It wasn't like any angel to curse so indiscriminately, much less in reference to the all-knowing Father. He shook his head, but released the other being's wrist, slamming back his own drink in synchrony with Castiel. Then he carefully placed a hand gently on the angel's arm and changed the subject. "What say we get out of here? There's a liquor store down the street, and a nice little park a block beyond that. I could use some fresh air."

Castiel stared uncomprehendingly at the demon's hand, then gradually dragged his eyes up to focus on Crowley's most sincere expression. (Open gaze number 37, to be precise.) The inebriated ethereal being narrowed his eyes in suspicion before slowly shrugging, "Yes, fine."

The two left companionably, much to the bartender's relief, and meandered down the street in silence. Crowley kept a gentle, supporting hand on Castiel's elbow to keep him from falling off the curb, and was surprised not to be shrugged off. The night was dark and the streets poorly lit; for a moment he almost imagined that they were back strolling through Soho three decades previously. He forced himself to remain silent when every instinct in him wanted to discuss dolphins.

When they finally reached it, the liquor store was friendly, brightly lit, and as surprisingly well-stocked as the pub had been. It was a jolting beacon for the twenty-first century, and the demon shook himself from his reverie as Castiel quickly entered the establishment.

Crowley browsed reminiscently through the red wine before heading for the Scotch, picking up a bottle of Glenfiddich for himself. He made his way to the cash register only to discover that Castiel had been quite busy in the meantime, having brought several quarts of indiscriminate quality alcohol to the counter for purchase.

Crowley stared in astonishment at the nonsensical collection of hard liquor that the angel had collected. "What are you going to do, drink the store?", he blurted before he could sensor himself. 

Castiel glared at him blurrily. "Nooo…" he demurred, shaking his head. Then, staring at the mound of bottles dubiously, he slurred, "Maybe". The young man behind the counter smirked.

The demon snorted in amusement as well. "Tell you what, sport. Why don't you pick out your favorite bottle, and we'll buy that. We can always come back for more later."

Castiel nodded seriously, studying his collection. As he ruled out each bottle, he handed it to Crowley who conscientiously returned them to the shelves, mostly to keep from laughing at the grave expression on the angel's face. They ultimately ended up with a 2-quart bottle of bottom shelf Tequila, which the demon set next to his own purchase and paid for. The clerk, grateful for the sober gentleman's help in controlling his intoxicated friend, threw a couple of inexpensive complimentary glasses into the bag as well.

A short stroll, or stagger in Castiel's case, and they were at the park. Crowley used a small spell to keep the pair hidden from casual observers as the angel selected a park bench with the same serious consideration that he had his Tequila. The crossroads demon was surprised that the angel hadn't put up much of a fuss about having a drinking buddy, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The more relaxed he could get Castiel, the sooner he could find out what was wrong. He just hoped that the Winchesters were still in play; despite everything, they were still the most likely bet to defeat Lucifer. He hadn't accessed his tracking coin for fear of alerting Hell to his location, but if he couldn't get answers from the distraught angel, he might have to risk it.

Ultimately the pair were seated in a secluded spot off the main path, overlooking a small pond. The corner of Crowley's lip quirked up in bemusement as he noted the sleeping ducks in the nearby rushes, heads tucked firmly beneath their wings. He snorted and fished the two bottles and glasses from the sack, passing one of each to the silently brooding angel. 

"Cheers," he stated, raising his glass in a toast before taking an appreciative sip. Castiel managed to awkwardly pry open his bottle, then slosh some of his high-test booze into his own glass. He spilled quite a bit on the ground in the process, but didn't seem to notice. Staring blankly into the middle distance, he growled a low "cheers" in reply and tossed back the entire shot in one go.

Crowley's eyebrow arched, but he remained silent as he relaxed back on the bench. Instead, he gazed at the quiet pond before him. The moonlight reflected off the surface of the water, bathing the scene in a surreal beauty. Staring at the peaceful scene, it was easy to forget the impending apocalypse.

Still, nothing could be ignored forever. Crowley cleared his throat and hazarded, "So… the Angel of Thursday is drinking himself into unconsciousness. Any reason in particular?"

Castiel was silent so long that the demon was afraid that he'd forgotten the question. "Our Father has abandoned us."

Crowley blinked, momentarily stunned. "Excuse me?" he finally stammered, certain that he had misunderstood.

"You heard me," the angel snarled, "God has left heaven to its own devices. There is anarchy Up Above."

Crowley grimaced, then took a swig straight from his bottle. "And Lucifer is walking the Earth. Marvelous. Bloody marvelous." He took another gulp of whisky and stared out at the quiet lake. After a moment he muttered, "So what are we going to do about it?"

Castiel stared at his bottle. After a long moment he hazarded, "Drink more liquor stores?"

Crowley chuckled darkly despite himself. Leave it to his angel to make him smile. The loneliness hit him like a punch in the gut.

An intermittent buzzing started coming from the trench coat as Castiel focused once more on his tequila, foregoing the glass altogether and swigging straight from the bottle. Crowley frowned and examined the angel, finally locating the source of the noise just as it stopped. “I think that’s your phone,” he commented casually, staring back out at the moonlit lake. 

Castiel just grunted noncommittally before sightlessly taking another gulp.

Crowley raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Might be the Winchesters,” he added.

“Yep.” The rumpled angel made no move to check his phone, staring out across the water as well.

The demon took a chance and nudged shoulders companionably. “Might be important…” he hinted.

Castiel’s face screwed up in disgust. “It isn’t.”

Crowley carefully hid his surprise as he sipped his drink. After a few moments, he snorted, “Never thought I’d see the day that you ignored Dean Winchester.”

The silence following that continued so long that he wasn’t sure the angel had heard him. He was about to try again when Castiel barely muttered, “Doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Not if God has buggered off, no.” Sip. Silence. Crowley thought furiously. He wasn’t ready to give up on those two humans just yet, but if they needed help, he needed to get Castiel to them. Otherwise, he might have to stick his own neck out, and he really didn’t want to do that just yet. 

He finally hazarded, “But still, I figured you’d… you know… want to spend the ‘end of days’ with family or friends, and you seem really close to those two.” 

He watched despairingly as the angel took another gulp and ignored him. He sighed, then shifted to face Castiel. “Look, it’s none of my business…”

“Right,” the other man snapped, surprisingly lucid for a moment. “It’s not.”

“Lover’s quarrel?” Crowley teased, ready to make a run for it if Castiel moved to smite him.

Castiel turned to face him, eyes narrowed in a glare. He fumbled at his pocket for a few moments, never breaking his gaze, and finally produced his cell phone. He then shifted his gaze to stare blearily at the controls and press a few random buttons.

The demon couldn’t stand the suspense. He snatched the phone irritably away from his companion and hit the voicemail function, putting the last message on speaker. 

Sam’s voice emerged on full volume, making both listeners wince. “Cas, hey, uh, it’s me. So we are in Blue Earth, Minnesota, and, um, we could use a little help. I…hope you get this.” Click. The message ended.

Crowley offered the now-silent phone back to the angel, who stared at it for a moment before shoving it into his pocket. Neither spoke for over a minute, then the demon awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Need help getting there?” he asked, surprised to find that he was actually a little worried.

Castiel wobbled to his feet, downing the last of his tequila in one long gulp before dropping the bottle to the ground. “Nah… I got this,” he muttered, and was gone.

Crowley stared at the empty spot for some time before leaning back on the bench to sip his whisky once more. He sat lost in thought, staring out over the lake until pink began to lighten the horizon. One of the nearby ducks awoke and waddled over to him, looking for an early-morning meal. It quacked expectantly, rousing the demon from his reverie with a snarl.

“Go on, shoo!” he snapped, flinging out a hand. “I’ve nothing for you!”

The bird stared expectantly.

"No!" the demon growled.

The fowl didn't move.

Crowley narrowed his eyes with suspicion, then glanced around to be certain that there were no observers nearby. The corner of his mouth quirked up wryly as he materialized a crust of bread, tossing it to the duck who happily gobbled it up. “Off with you, then,” he grumbled and, to his surprise, the fowl wandered away without further complaint. He stood, brushing himself off, and took one longing look around before nodding. 

With a snap, the park was empty once more.


End file.
